After about ten minutes, Scrafield heard the front door open, and he hurried into the living room to make sure that it was Darlene who had returned. She was carrying a small paper bag and frowned at him as she handed him the bag.
"Here's the pickup you wanted," she said, "from Hanover Hardware Store. Mr. Hanover wasn't there, but he left this with one of his clerks, a young guy named Charles. As it turned out, Charles gave me more than this bag."
"What are you talking about?"
Darlene moved closer to Scrafield. "He gave me some information I didn't know. Said a couple of policemen are his customers, and they passed along a tidbit of gossip. That you were arrested last night for trying to rape one of Freeberg's sex surrogates named Gayle Miller."
"What kind of bullshit is that?" snapped Scrafield. "Rape her? Hell, I'd like to kill her for coming on to me the way she did. A really cheap whore. She tried to blame me, and I was arrested by mistake. But you see me here now, quite unarrested."
"Then why are we going to St. Louis tonight?"
"Better offer. Just came up. Don't worry, you'll even get a raise. Are you all packed, ready to go with me?"
"A job's a job," she shrugged.
"Just remember that," Scrafield said sourly. He busied himself removing a small bottle with yellowish liquid from inside the bag. He began to loosen the cap that had been screwed on.
"Hey, you better be careful with what you're doing," Darlene said. "That's sulfuric acid. If it gets on your skin, the hardware clerk told me, it can disfigure you for life." Darlene hesitated. "What do you need sulfuric acid for?"
"It's the best-known drain cleaner around. I want to see that our new place is clean. Now, enough of this crapping around. Let's get going. You drive." He paused. "By the way, one brief stop before we head out of town. You know a restaurant called Mario's Gardens?"
"Everyone does."
"Okay, stop in front of the place for a minute and wait for me. I have to see someone inside, and then we'll be on our way."
"Whatever you say."
"That's what I say," growled Scrafield as he headed for the front door.
They went out to Scrafield's Buick, and Darlene settled behind the wheel, waiting for her preacher to get comfortable beside her.
Then she drove off.
Their round table at Mario's Gardens was near the dance floor.
As host and hostess, Brandon and Gayle dominated the group. To one side of them sat Nan and Demski, at the other sat Hunter and Suzy, and the seventh chair meant for Dr. Freeberg was removed.
They'd been finishing their drinks, as well as their chopped Italian salads, when a busboy took their plates, and two waiters appeared and served them their hot pasta main courses.
Observing Gayle twisting her spaghetti around her fork, Brandon said, "You still haven't told me something."
"Told you what?"
"The meaning of a Tom Jones dinner."
"This is it, right now," said Gayle. "Remember that old movie Tom Jones? There was a terrific eating scene in it. The hero and heroine were eating together, eating food out of each other's plates and staring at each other. It was the sexiest scene in the whole movie. Somehow, the therapy surrogates, from the very onset of their treatment, adopted this eating scene as their graduation ritual."
"Why?" asked Brandon.
"Because there's a pretty close link between food and sexuality," said Gayle. "What we're doing here this evening is merely symbolic of an actual Tom Jones dinner. The real Tom Jones, if it's scheduled to take place, occurs in the last exercise between surrogate and patient. Each brings finger food, and you don't talk but sit side by side and feed each other and maybe have some wine. It's not a sex session, but it is lusty. A way of being intimate and saying good-bye. Eventually, there is talk, of course. The surrogate and partner review their close relationship, what went well in it, what went poorly, what was funny, what was sad, and what they could do to make things better in the future. They recollect their original fright and nervousness, and the high points of the days behind them. Talking, we know we may never lay eyes on each other again as long as we live, but what we experienced together can never be taken away from us as long as we live. We talk about how we're closing our relationship with each other and setting out to form new relationships, always retaining a fresh view of the sweetness and richness of life. We pleasure each other by exchanging food and remembrances. And symbolically, that was what Dr. Freeberg wanted us to enjoy together tonight. So let's enjoy our Tom Jones dinner."
Gayle held her forkful of spaghetti up to Brandon's mouth, and he nipped and sucked at it, eating and swallowing, and then speared a fork of fettuccine and fed it to Gayle.
Chewing, she looked around the table.
"All of you, get into it. Chet, you feed Suzy, then let her feed you. And Nan and Adam, you do the same. You'll see what fun it can be."
They busied themselves with the ritual, and halfway through their main courses, they started to engage in conversations, recollecting the best and the worst of times of their therapy and all agreeing that on this night they all felt happy and exulted.
Eventually, the music from the five-piece orchestra resumed, and Gayle and Brandon could see that Suzy and Hunter were already in each other's arms on the dance floor, and that Nan and Demski were leaving their chairs, holding hands and dreamily beginning to dance together.
For a while, Gayle and Brandon, their fingers entwined, silently watched the two couples swaying and moving about the partially darkened room.
"Want to join them?" Brandon asked quietly.
Gayle shook her head. "I just want to join you, as soon as we can leave here."
Brandon nodded. "I'll see that it's very soon."
Darlene and Scrafield drew up before the ivy-covered exterior trellises of Mario's Gardens.
"Here we are," said Darlene. "What next?"
"You stay behind the wheel, double park, keep the engine idling. I'll be out in a minute."
Inside, in the foyer of the restaurant, Scrafield accosted the short, slick-haired maitre d'.
"I'm looking for someone who is dining here tonight," said Scrafield. "Miss Gayle Miller. She's at Dr. Freeberg's table."
"Oh, yes . . ." As the maitre d' started away, he paused. "Who should I tell her is asking for her?"
"Tell her Mr. Lewis. She'll know. Tell her I have something I want to give her."
Observing the maitre d' leave, Scrafield smiled to himself. He was getting adept at using other people's names and voices. When he had hit upon his scheme, he had called Dr. Freeberg's secretary and told her that he was Otto Ferguson and he wanted to know where he could talk to Gayle Miller. The secretary had told him that Dr. Freeberg had reserved a table at Mario's Gardens for this evening, and that Gayle Miller would be among the guests.
That had been easy. So was this, using Hoyt Lewis as bait.
Scrafield fingered the bottle of sulfuric acid in his pocket. When he gave Gayle what he intended to give her—what she deserved—she would look like the Phantom of the Opera—even worse. No man would ever again be enticed by the little whore.
That instant, he saw the maitre d' returning, and a step behind him—one last look at that beautiful face, those wiggling hips—was Gayle Miller.
The maitre d' gestured toward Scrafield, then turned away to his reservations.
Puzzled, Gayle approached Scrafield. "It's you! The man said Mr. Lewis was here. What do you want?"
Scrafield took a step closer to her. "I wanted to leave you something to remember me by."
"What do you mean?"
Scrafield dug into his pocket for the sulfuric acid, unscrewing the top as he tugged it free.
Holding the uncapped bottle in his hand, he swiftly raised his right arm, pointing the mouth of the bottle at Gayle's face, about to fling its contents at her.
As his arm came back slightly to spew the contents over her, another arm suddenly came from behind Scrafield, under his throwing arm, smashing up ha
rd beneath his arm, lifting it and the opened bottle toward his own face.
The jarring upward blow sent the sulfuric acid splashing out across Scrafield's startled countenance and into his mouth, which was agape. The acid had the searing effect of a flamethrower. Scrafield scratched at his forehead, cheeks, mouth, and shrieked.
At the same moment, Gayle screamed for Paul.
As the maitre d' went down on his knees before Scrafield, now writhing and moaning on the floor, Gayle stared into the face of Darlene Young.
"I'm Miss Young, his assistant," Darlene said quietly, watching as Brandon arrived to take Gayle into his arms. "I had an idea he wanted to get even with you, Miss Miller. Now he's the one who'll be disfigured."
"Better beat it before the police come," Brandon urged her.
Darlene shook her head. "No. I want to tell the police what happened." She smiled wryly. "Sorry to have spoiled your dinner." She paused. "But maybe I didn't after all."
Three hours and three cognacs later Brandon was slowly driving Gayle to her home.
As they turned the corner and approached the house, he glanced down at her as she moved closer to him. Placing an arm around her, he asked, "How do you feel?"
"Recovered, Paul. Never better."
"It could have been horrendous."
"But it wasn't. I hardly remember that it happened. In fact, I remember just one thing. You forgot to offer me dessert."
"I didn't forget it at all. I thought this was a Tom Jones dessert. Something we should share together at your house. Do you approve?"
She tightened her hand over his. "What are we waiting for?"
Gayle was fitting her key into her front door when Brandon started removing her black sequined sweater and then unzipping her long skirt.
In the dimly lighted living room, they embraced and clutched each other, then silently came apart and began to undress each other.
His arm around her shoulders, her arm around his waist, they padded barefoot into the bedroom illuminated by a single lamp.
Arm in arm, they moved to the side of the bed. Then Brandon lifted her up and lovingly placed her on her back on the bed and lowered himself beside her, very closely, until they were flesh to flesh, bodies contacting each other.
His fingers ran over her forehead and mouth, and her hand moved across his abdomen.
"Paul . . ."
"Yes?"
"I—I hope you don't mind, but since Dr. Freeberg's not looking over our shoulder . . . can we go short on the touching and caressing?"
"You want me to break the rules?"
"No rules tonight, please. No patients tonight. Just you and me, on our own time. And in love. So let's—" Her legs had opened wide and he was over her. "Paul, I'm ready. Very. And you're—"
"Very."
"It's going to be fun," she said breathlessly.
He went into her slowly, slowly, deeper and deeper, to the very hilt. It was moist, her vagina, and soft as down, and it engulfed him like a frantic hug. He began moving inside her, back and forth, still slowly.
"Ahhh," she moaned, "I love it."
"I love you," he gasped.
They were going steadily when her hands gripped his ribs, slowing him even more.
"Paul . . ."
"Yes?"
"Do you talk when you make love?"
"Sometimes. Maybe. I don't know."
"I do, Paul. I talk."
"That's fine."
"Because usually I don't talk doing it with patients. We're not supposed to."
"I know."
"But this is just you and me alone, and I like to vent my feelings. Also, maybe—"
"What, darling?"
"—because I'm enjoying myself so much with you that it keeps me from being embarrassed. Besides . . ."
"Besides?"
"I—I hope you don't mind if I'm noisy. I like to let go."
"Let go. I will, too."
"Ahhh, good, good. Faster, Paul, faster. Not so slow. Faster."
He quickened his movements. Downward, upward. He accelerated their coupling faster and faster.
"Paul . . ."
He could hardly hear her, with her head going from side to side on the pillow, and her pelvis rocking to and fro. "Paul . . ."
"Yes?" he gasped.
"You know a woman takes maybe fifteen minutes longer to come than a man does?"
"I've heard."
"Not me, Paul."
"No?"
"Not me. I get ready much quicker—maybe as quickly as you . . . Do you mind?"
"Can't wait," he gasped.
For minutes, they were lost in each other, totally fused, all sense of time gone.
"Oh, Paul . . ."
"Yes, darling?"
"I'm almost there. All I need is—"
"Is what?"
"—for you to rub my clit a little harder . . . No, not that way . . . I didn't mean your hand. I want your body to rub my clit when you go in and out . . ."
"Like this?"
He clasped her by each cheek of her buttocks and drew her up against him. Pressing hard together, they caressed each other.
"Oh, yes, yes . . . That's—yes—just right . . ."
"Just heavenly," he gasped.
On and on, clamped tightly together, on and on, both breathing hard.
"Paul—"
"Darling?"
"—those, those books, novels, where the hero, heroine, they're making it, and near the end she screams, 'More, more, more . . . Don't stop . . . Do it harder, please harder.' You know?"
"What—what about them?" he gasped.
"They're not phony, not fantasy; they're real, they're realistic. I know."
"Know what?"
"It's true . . . I'll prove it." Silence, only heavy breathing, body writhing, and then from deep in her lungs came an outcry, "Don't stop . . . More, more, more . . . Harder, please, harder . . ."
He was blinded by perspiration, his chest heaving, his arms trembling, as he went berserk inside her.
She was holding on desperately, her heart hammering, her skin flushed, her breathing irregular, her nails raking his flesh, as her pelvic mound wrenched upward, "Paul, my God, I'm coming, I'm coming, I—"
She screamed out words unclear, and then, panting, she said, "I came."
He could not hear her. He was erupting inside her. The eruption continued and continued and then it was spent. "I came," she repeated from far away.
"I came, too, my darling," he gasped, "like never before."
Gradually disengaging, he fell back on the pillow close to her, his matted hair against her disheveled hair. After a long interval of regaining their equilibrium, she finally turned her head and looked at him. "Hey, where have you been all my life?"
Their arms went around each other, and after a little while, they were sound asleep in their embrace.
Brandon awakened first at shortly after nine o'clock in the morning, his head clear and his muscles loose and rested.
He shifted his head on the pillow to see if Gayle was asleep. Her eyes were closed, and one of her breasts, not covered by the blanket, lay in repose and slightly spread out.
Realizing the blanket covered them both, he guessed that she had briefly awakened in the night to draw it over them.
Feasting on her gentle profile, the happy memory of last night suffused him. He wondered if she, too, upon awakening, would still feel the sensual aftermath of their lovemaking.
As his gaze held on her, he saw her eyes flutter open. After an instant, they opened wide. She seemed to know where she was, and who was with her, because she searched for him at once. She found him regarding her so lovingly that her lips curled upward, and she stretched her arms out for him.
Brandon went into her arms, pressing his mouth to hers, and then working his kisses down her neck to her breast, where he circled the nipple with his tongue.
"I know what I'd like before breakfast, darling," he whispered.
She reached down beneath the blanket
and put her hand between his legs, taking hold of him. "I think I know what I'd like, too," she said softly.
His hand grabbed the top edge of the blanket and stripped it away from her.
That moment their passion was interrupted by the sound of a distant thunderclap. Or what sounded as loud as a thunderclap.
It was the telephone on her bed stand, ringing insistently. "You don't have to answer," Brandon said. "This time it can't possibly be Dr. Freeberg."
"But it has to be something important. No one else ever calls at this hour. I must answer, Paul."
She snatched up the phone receiver and brought it to her ear.
She listened, then replied to someone, "Yes, this is Gayle Miller."
She listened some more, and from the intent expression on her face and her half of the conversation that he could hear, Brandon guessed it was someone important about something important, after all.
"Oh, how wonderful!" she exclaimed.
The receiver was pushed tightly against her ear, and her expression had become one of unadulterated pleasure.
"That's the best news in the world I could have heard," she was saying. "How very kind of you to call me. I'm absolutely thrilled. I'll look forward to your mailing the details, and I'll be there, all right. You bet I'll be there. Thank you a thousand times, Dr. Wilberforce."
Gayle dropped the receiver on its hook and spun about on the bed, her arms upraised as she gave a great whoop, her face totally wreathed in a smile.
"Listen to this, Paul, listen. That was the head of the Admissions Committee for the Graduate Program in Psychology at UCLA. They're sending a letter telling me that of the more than five hundred applicants to the Psychology Department this year, I'm one of the sixty students to be accepted. And also, I've been given a Chancellor's Fellowship—a full one-year's scholarship. They were kind enough to call and let me know without my having to wait for their admissions letter. Isn't that fantastic!"
Her arms came down and encircled Brandon, hugging him to her.
He kissed Gayle. "Congratulations, darling. It is fantastic, absolutely."
"Now I'm going to quit surrogating, much as I hate to, and go full steam ahead. I'll be another Freeberg, sooner or later—you watch and see."
The Celestial Bed Page 30
